


Date Night

by jane_with_a_j



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, From a prompt (sort of), Ineffable Husbands Week 2019, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 14:15:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20490218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_with_a_j/pseuds/jane_with_a_j
Summary: Crowley has a special evening planned.  It has to be perfect.  But he isn't the only one with a surprise up his sleeve.





	Date Night

**Author's Note:**

> So, day 1 of Ineffable Husbands Week, and I'm already sauntering vaguely off on a tangent. The prompt was "music."

Miles Kenworth was not the most sought-after tailor in London, but he was, in Crowley's opinion, the best. He operated out of a small, nondescript storefront, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it sort of place that, from the outside, gave no indication whatsoever of the quality and luxury you'd find inside.

It was ironic, really, that it was Aziraphale who had introduced them. Aziraphale, who only owned two jackets, who thought tartan bowties were stylish, who had been wearing the same balding waistcoat for ... how many decades had it been now? But Miles wasn't offended by Aziraphale's sartorial eccentricities, and he was a bit of a bibliophile. He was a regular at the bookshop. Was, in fact, Aziraphale's favourite kind of regular, the kind who would pop in from time to time, coo admiringly over the latest rare first editions, chat for a bit about poetry or philosophy or pulp serials, and then head home, having purchased nothing more than a couple of cheap, not-at-all-collectible mass-market paperbacks.

Miles was a man of many talents, but his specialty was evening wear. Crowley could never resist touching the fabric swatches that were on display at the front of the shop, running his fingers over the impossibly fine wools, the smooth silks, the soft cotton weaves. He was admiring a particularly sensuous bit of red satin when Miles's assistant, Poppy, called him over.

He had already explained over the phone what it was, more or less, that he needed. A special suit for a special occasion. The occasion was, in fact, the anniversary of the day Aziraphale had originally opened the bookshop, centuries earlier, but he could hardly tell these humans that. Fortunately, he didn't have to explain it in those terms, because he and Aziraphale had made plans. They were going to the symphony.

“We've been to plenty of concerts,” he said, as Miles emerged from the back with a selection of black dinner jackets slung over his arm – off-the-rack samples, just for ideas. “Mostly outdoor shows, though. Festivals and the like. He's always liked the symphony, but we've never actually been together.” It was the reason he'd suggested it in the first place. How was it possible, given how much they both enjoyed music, that they'd never, in all these centuries, been to the symphony together? “We thought we'd make an evening of it,” he added. “Go for a late meal afterward.”

“Reservations at the Ritz?” asked Miles, who had long ago picked up on the fact that the Ritz was sort of “their” place. Crowley nodded, although, in point of fact, he hadn't bothered to make a reservation. Their favourite table was always free when they wanted it, any time of the day or night.

“Sounds lovely,” said Poppy. “So romantic.”

Crowley flushed, a little. But that was the idea, wasn't it? He tried on a jacket, inspected his reflection, and shook his head. Something about it wasn't quite right. Was the wool a little bit scratchy? No, Miles would never tolerate scratchy wool in his shop. It was something else. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. He shrugged out of the jacket and handed it off to Poppy. He tried on another. Were the lapels too narrow? No, they were perfectly fine. Just fine. The sleeves were ... also fine. There was nothing wrong with this jacket. But there was _something_ wrong with it. He took it off. Tried on another. And another. Every jacket was perfect, and every jacket was wrong.

After the ninth jacket had been tried on and shrugged off with a grimace, Miles held up a hand.

“I think,” he said, “that the problem is not the jackets.”

“I don't know what you mean,” said Crowley.

“I think,” said Miles, “that, even more than usual, you want this suit to be perfect. But maybe it isn't really about the suit?”

Crowley did his level best to stare down the tailor through his sunglasses. The man didn't flinch.

“You know me,” Miles said. “Have I ever failed to find you the right look for any occasion? But I need to know what the occasion is, and I think there's something you're not telling me.”

“Oh, all right,” said Crowley. The jacket he'd come in wearing was slung over the back of a chair. He reached into the pocket and pulled out a small box that he'd been carrying around with him for the past two weeks.

He hadn't actually been planning to buy a ring right now. Not that he hadn't thought about it, you know, in the abstract. Just ... no concrete plans. But he'd been in, of all places, an antique shop, and there had been a display of vintage jewellery, and he'd stopped to look. It had been perfect. A wide gold band, with an etched pattern that, if you looked closely, formed the scaled body and tapered head of a snake.

When he opened the box, Poppy gasped and clapped her hands together in delight. Miles just smiled.

“He'll like it,” said Miles.

“I hope so,” said Crowley.

Miles leaned back and looked at him thoughtfully. “I have an idea,” he said. “But you're going to have to trust me.”

\--

Crowley pulled the Bentley up to the curb in front of the bookshop and checked his watch. Right on time. He opened the door and stepped out into the street, pausing to check his reflection in the window and adjust his lapels. Miles had suggested that, given the occasion, he ought to try something _different_. Well, this was different. Not that he'd never worn white – sorry, _ivory_ – before, but it certainly wasn't his usual aesthetic. Not even with the black silk shirt underneath, and the usual sunglasses over his eyes. Still, he had to give credit where it was due. It was exactly what he would never have guessed he was looking for.

The closed sign was up in the bookshop window, and the door was locked – but not to him. For him, the handle turned and the door swung open in welcome, just as it always had.

“Aziraphale,” he called. “You ready, angel?”

“I'll be out in a moment,” came the familiar voice from the back room.

Crowley turned and set the gift box he'd been carrying down on the desk. Chocolates. He'd brought chocolates on the day Aziraphale had opened the bookshop, centuries ago, and he had started doing so again during the eleven years they'd been counting down to what might have been Armageddon, when they'd started seeing each other so much more regularly. A little tradition they'd established.

There was a small houseplant on the desk, a gift he had brought over some months earlier. It appeared to be growing well. He ran a finger over the leaves and hissed a mild threat. The plant trembled, ever so slightly.

“Oh.”

At the sound of Aziraphale's voice, Crowley looked up.

“Oh my,” said Aziraphale. “You look _wonderful_.”

Crowley barely registered the compliment. He was too busy staring.

“You got a new suit,” he managed, after a moment. The last time the angel had worn black, it had been that silly magician's costume. This was ... not that.

“I did,” said Aziraphale, his face flushing ever so slightly. “I thought it might be nice to, well, to dress up a bit tonight. And Miles has been a friend for years, and you've always said he does such good work-”

“He does,” said Crowley. _That bastard,_ he thought, smiling to himself. _He didn't let on. Not one hint._ The bow tie was a nice touch. Tartan, but a in a rich dark green and black that complimented the perfectly fitted black jacket and pristine white shirt.

Aziraphale gave him one of those shy smiles that never failed to _do things_ to his heart. “You like it, then?”

“I, uh, y-yeah. I do. I like it a lot,” Crowley said.

“Oh, good,” said Aziraphale. “I like yours, too.” He reached out and ran a hand down the front of Crowley's jacket. “Lovely,” he said.

Crowley caught his hand. Coughed. Blushed, probably. They stood there for a moment, hands clasped, looking at each other fondly.

“Come on, then,” said Aziraphale. “Let's go and listen to some music.”

\--

In the coffee shop across the street, Miles and Polly had staked out a seat by the window, and were watching as the two of them exited the bookshop.

“You did good work, Miles,” said Polly.

“Probably shouldn't be spying on them like this,” said Miles, smiling behind the rim of his mug.

“So,” said Polly, grinning, “which of them do you think is going to get around to it first? My money's on Fell.” The charmingly odd bookseller had confessed to the real reason he wanted a new suit for this occasion, and had shown them both the ring he had bought. A slim band of gold, finely etched with a pattern that might have been leaves, or might have been feathers.

“You may be right,” said Miles. “I suppose we'll have to wait to find out.” One thing was for certain, he thought, as the Bentley turned the corner and vanished from sight. Assuming the bookshop opened at all tomorrow, he would definitely be needing to drop by. Just to pick up some new paperbacks, of course.


End file.
